


spread the wings upon your back

by thesaddestboner



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Wings, Detroit Red Wings, Gen, Not Beta Read, Wingfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-17
Updated: 2014-10-17
Packaged: 2018-02-21 13:00:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 733
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2469089
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thesaddestboner/pseuds/thesaddestboner
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>One day Gustav Nyquist wakes up with wings.  As you do.</p>
            </blockquote>





	spread the wings upon your back

**Author's Note:**

> [Gustav Nyquist](http://nullrefer.com/?https://dekeysersoze.files.wordpress.com/2014/10/gustav-nyquist.jpg), for the uninitiated.
> 
> Fits the **wingfic -** [](http://trope-bingo.dreamwidth.org/profile)[**trope_bingo**](http://trope-bingo.dreamwidth.org/) square.
> 
> There might be more in this "'verse." Not sure.
> 
> Obvious title from "Until We Fall," by Audioslave.
> 
> You can find me on [twitter](http://twitter.com/thesaddestboner) and [tumblr](http://saddestboner.tumblr.com).

Gus feels the strange tickle under his skin as he’s dressing in the lockerroom before pregame skate, but he just passes it off as a rash and slathers some lotion on his skin between his shoulder blades. Rashes are nothing, really; they get them all the time, either from the friction of wet jersey against bare skin or whatever’s lurking between the grout in the showers.

He forgets about the rash, mostly, but for a few stray moments of downtime during the game, during a lull in the action. The odd prickly feeling settles back between his shoulder blades, and he wonders if he’s aggravated it somehow. 

Gus shrugs and wriggles his shoulders, but the itch still doesn’t go away. 

It almost feels as if someone’s running a feather duster between his shoulders, down the length of his spine. How he’d know what a feather duster feels like between his shoulder blades, Gus isn’t entirely sure, but he imagines it would feel something like this. It’s prickly and tingly and annoying. His sweat-damp skin burns hotly under layers of heavy, damp padding and jersey. 

The game itself is an uneventful affair, a solid, boring 3-2 Red Wings victory. Gus doesn’t contribute in any meaningful way on the scoresheet, but he still feels satisfied with how he’d played. Gus leveled a body-check in the second period that helped jumpstart a breakaway, so he feels good about that. 

Gus strips slowly out of his damp jersey in front of his locker, balling it up and tossing it haphazardly at the laundry bin in the middle of the lockerroom. He undoes clasps and straps and buckles, shedding his protective gear and leaving it in a heap in front of his stall for the lockerroom attendants to handle.

The mindless chatter around him goes suddenly silent as he gets to his feet and straightens up to his full height. He doesn’t really think about it at first, grabs his soap and shampoo from the top shelf in his locker, slings a towel over his bare shoulder.

Gus doesn’t notice all eyes are on him until he turns to head to the showers and stops short. Reporters and photographers are gaping at him, cameras and microphones and shiny black recorders hanging limply from their hands. His teammates are staring at him with a mixture of awe and something like horror in their eyes.

“What? What is it?” Gus asks, laughing.

Hank coughs and clears his throat. “Gus,” he begins, taking a tentative step forward.

“Why are you all acting so funny?” Gus isn’t laughing anymore. He eyes Hank, edgy, that annoying itch spreading everywhere under his skin now.

“Just—come here for a moment.” Hank grasps him by the shoulder and pulls him closer. 

Gus feels Hank's fingers rest on his back, high between his shoulder blades. They slide lower and he squirms under Hank’s touch. Everyones’ eyes are still on him—the two of them, now—and it’s weird. Hank’s fingers press on his back, between his shoulder blades, over something knobby and sore.

“Ow, Hank, watch it.” Gus tries to reach back and whack his hand away.

“Gus.” Hank exhales heavily, gently pushing and prodding at the bumps on his back. 

Gus fidgets and squirms, and tries to avoid the worried, confused looks in his teammates’ eyes. “What is it?”

“They’re wings,” Hank says.

“Huh?”

“Your wings. You’ve literally sprouted wings.” Hank touches one of the bumps gently, and Gus twists away from him, hissing under his breath at the sharp, brief stab of pain. “I’ve heard of this happening before.”

“It was Fedorov,” Pavel chimes in. “He show us what they look like once. Big and red, stretch up to the ceiling.” He holds up his hands and wiggles his fingers.

“These are just baby wings, though. They’ll take some time to fill in,” Hank says, pulling his hand away. “Piet will get you some ointment and bandages.”

“What’s going to happen to me?” Gus asks, turning to look at Hank.

“Nothing bad, if that’s what you mean,” Hank says, with a small, knowing smile. He drops his voice down low, for only Gus to hear. “Only the really special ones get them.”

Hank flicks his eyes briefly to Pavel, and Gus understands.

Gus wriggles his shoulders. Oddly, the wings don’t ache so much anymore. It’s almost as if they’d just wanted to be discovered.

**Author's Note:**

> The author of this piece intends no insult, slander, or copyright infringement, and is not profiting from this work. This story is a complete work of fiction and does not necessarily reflect on the nature of the individuals featured. This is for entertainment purposes only. If you found this story while Googling your name or the names of your friends, hit the back button now.


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